


hold the runner

by ohtempora



Category: Baseball RPF, Original Work
Genre: Baseball, M/M, Strangers to Lovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-31
Updated: 2020-07-31
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:53:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25511632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohtempora/pseuds/ohtempora
Summary: Kyle has a perfectly normal reason to hate Eli West. It’s not the publicity, or his looks, or that their teams are, technically, triple-A rivals. It’s easier than that. Kyle’s a catcher. And West is fast.
Relationships: Original Male Character/Original Male Character
Comments: 13
Kudos: 42
Collections: Rare Male Slash Exchange 2020





	hold the runner

**Author's Note:**

  * For [theladyscribe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theladyscribe/gifts).



Summer in North Carolina has this particular sticky quality that seeps into your bones, sits on you, the humidity a soft, inescapable blanket that only breaks once it rains. Only sometimes breaks once it rains.

It’s worse when you’re in a catcher squat.

Kyle squints and shifts from one foot to the other. Garrett just got into the game, long relief after the starter got yanked early. One of those games on the edge, the tension radiating across his shoulders, his spine. They’re this close to a total meltdown by the entire pitching staff. His job to stop, of course.

He flashes signs, calls for Garrett to throw his curve. The guy’s got a decent curve, a pitch that’s carried him through a few rounds of spring training cuts. If he can locate it, they might be fine. Garrett winds up and throws, and - shit. Kyle doesn’t know  _ what  _ the fuck that pitch is, except it doesn’t fucking curve. Instead it almost hits the batter. Instead it almost gets by him.

“Jesus,” the batter says. Kyle looks up at him too. He doesn’t think he knows the guy. New signing, maybe, since he doesn’t look too young. He kinda shrugs some, hoping the acknowledgment will be enough - yeah, I know, bud - and the batter nods and scuffs a toe in the dirt.

Kyle calls for a fastball, nothing more than that, figures Garrett can get over the plate and they’ll go from there. And on one hand he does, and on the other hand the batter makes just enough contact to send it bouncing down the line for a close single. And the single, of course, is enough to get Eli West to third.

Eli West is probably someone’s dream boy. He has the sort of All-American good looks that got him a  _ Sports Illustrated  _ cover even though still had to put coverup on his zits.  _ The start of Chicago’s next dynasty?  _ West and a cadre of prospects, next up for a team that’s lost a lot and sees the light at the end of the tunnel. West has the sort of baseball skills that get him fawning articles in Fangraphs and fantasy players fighting over him in keeper leagues.

Kyle has a perfectly normal reason to hate him. It’s not the publicity, or his looks, or that they are, technically, triple-A rivals. It’s easier than that. Kyle’s a catcher. And West is fast.

The next batter for the Knight is someone he knows, a AAAA guy who’s bounced up and down between the majors and minors. Bad news for Garrett, since any mistake he makes is going to end up sailing out of the park. 

So, yeah, it doesn’t end exactly how you’d think. It ends worse. West leads off third, and Garrett’s too in his own damn head to notice, winds up, starts to throw. West steals home. The Charlotte Knights win the game.

-

Kyle is the starting catcher for the Durham Bulls. If you look at it glass half-full, he’s the third-string catcher for the Tampa Bay Rays. He’s not sure which one is more frustrating. 

He’s not playing tomorrow, since the schedule has a Saturday day game to bring in the families with little kids, and he heads to a bar instead of dinner with the guys. Besides, he wants to break down the game by himself, turn over what he could have done better. Garrett - maybe not much there, a bad night that got worse. Hernandez, starting - the Knights sat fastball and swung at bad offspeed pitches. The rest of the ‘pen - nothing doing, after West stole home. 

West leads the league in stolen bases right now. Kyle’s building up a decent rep in the minors. Good pop time, the Rays brass told him, back in spring training when they were sending him down, but they said it nicely. Keep that up and you’ll be in Tampa sooner rather than later. 

He’s gotta be more on top of it.

The bar’s a dive, would be full of college students from the nearby schools if it wasn’t late June. Kyle orders a beer, glances at his phone. The Rays are down tonight, losing to Minnesota. Kepler lit up Morton for two home runs. They’re two and a half games back in the AL East. He’d still rather be there, sweating his ass off in the Trop. He drinks the beer and orders another, glances around the bar this time. There’s a few people coming in, and he checks one of them out. Tall guy, nice shoulders, big thighs. Soft curls, backlit by the lights outside as he twists to shut the door behind him.

Oh, fuck me, Kyle thinks, because a second look shows that it’s West, and West has definitely caught him checking him out. 

The guy’s probably been legal for six months, max. 

West walks over, hands in his pockets. “This seat taken?” he asks. He’s got a Northeast accent, just jarring enough after a few months in North Carolina. Not that Kyle, who’s from suburban Illinois and sounds it, has any room to talk. 

“Uh,” Kyle says. “No. Do whatever you want.” That sounds rude, he realizes, so he signals for the bartender to bring over a drink. West takes it with a murmured thanks. “Not with your team?”

“Like you are?” 

“I’m sitting here and figuring out every way you fucked all my pitchers,” Kyle says. “And how you fucked me, when you stole home. Don’t know what you’re here for.”

West purses his lips. “Needed a break,” he says, and takes the beer. They drink in silence for a few minutes, West tracing his fingers through some of the condensation left by his glass on the bar. 

Kyle doesn’t make a habit of this, drinking with the enemy. Sure, guys he played college with, or the guys he knew from fall ball in Arizona. West is neither of those. He’s younger, by a couple years, enough that they missed each other in travel tournaments growing up. He’s not from the Midwest. He was drafted high out of high school, a feat considering he was born in one of the snowier parts of New York State. Kyle wasn’t drafted out of high school. Kyle went to college down in fuckin’ Arkansas, and then he got drafted. 

“You had a good game,” West says eventually.

Kyle snorts. “You ran on us how many times?”

West tips his beer towards Kyle. “So you had a good game at the plate,” he says. This is not untrue. Kyle went 1 for 3 with a walk, which is absolutely something he’d be satisfied with, if his problems didn’t stem from behind the dish tonight.

“Doesn’t feel like a compliment.” Kyle looks at his beer. Mostly empty. Good enough. “You’re buying the next round.” 

To his credit, West does. Picks up two beers and two shots of Jameson, the amber of the whiskey catching the light when he picks the shots up off the bar. 

Kyle shakes his head. “You’re playing tomorrow,” he says.

“You aren’t.” West smiles. “I’m allowed to have an off day.”

“Yeah, must suck when you only go two for four.” Kyle takes the shot, their fingers brushing, and downs it when West does. He knows a dare when he sees one. The whiskey goes down warm like it always does, and he inhales, letting it sit in his stomach. “Is it fun?” he asks. “Running on a guy like you do. I never steal.” 

“Oh, yeah.” West is still smiling. “When you get the jump, it’s great. They never see it coming.”

“That’s not true,” Kyle says. 

“I mean, playing you guys, you see it coming sometimes.” He doesn’t add that most of the time Kyle can’t do anything about it, throws coming in late. He reminds himself when it happens that West is good, better than most of the guys he faces, and the coaches even tell him that too, on occasion. Still. “You’ve caught me before.”

“Not enough.”

“Hell, let’s make a bet,” West says. “You catch me stealing in the show, I owe you another beer and a shot. Nicer place than this, though, since - you know.”

He says  _ in the show  _ casually. But what’s Kyle supposed to do - say no? Say, no, I’ll be stuck here in Triple-A forever, because the Rays pitchers love the 38 year old vet who’s blocking me from even a backup position right now, and my only hope is an injury or a trade. 

“Alright,” Kyle says, after a moment that runs far too long. He knows he’s supposed to say something else - lean into whatever friendly rivalry West thinks they’ve got going. 

“Good,” West says. He reaches out, like they’re going to shake on it. Instead, they clasp hands, and for another long moment Kyle doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do. He looks at West, looks into his dark eyes, and thinks,  _ I could ask him to come home with me.  _ Ask West back to his shitty little Durham apartment with the creaky overhead ceiling fan and see how it goes. 

He pushes down on that urge. It’s the same old story, same as it’s been since college, since he was playing in Montgomery, Fishkill, Fayetteville - don’t let anything get in the way of making the big leagues. 

West lets go of his hand. His teeth are caught in his lip, and Kyle wonders what he’s thinking. But he’s got a good enough poker face that there’s no real indication. He looks down at his phone. Tampa came back, and the game is dragging on in extras, top of the eleventh, still tied. 

The bartender brings them another round of beers, and Kyle drinks this one too fast, too, thoughts swaying between the game he just played and the game his maybe-future team is playing, and West’s shoulders and dark eyes and steady presence next to him.

The Rays lose in the twelfth, which should be a good enough sign to get the fuck out, say his goodbyes to West and try and forget that they’ve made a bet, that West thinks they’ll see each other when the East plays the Central. He’s about to, he’s going to, when West takes a breath.

“What do you think it’s like?” he asks. “The majors. I know, spring training, but - I don’t know.”

“You’re gonna find out soon,” Kyle says. “Uh. It’s, it’s harder, I guess.”

“Faster. Everything's faster.”

“Yeah.” 

They got closer, shifting in their seats. Kyle could move away, but it seems like a lot right now. He stays where he is.

“I thought I’d make the team out of camp,” West says. “I know how it all works, I do, but, you know, still thought that.”

_ I didn’t _ , Kyle doesn’t say. Hates that he’s the one here hoping one of the guys above him decides it’s finally time to spend time with his family. West, they’ll slot him in wherever they can, DH or infield, doesn’t matter. 

“You’re gonna,” Kyle says. “You know that, man. All the analysts, they’re all there waiting for you.” He’s trying to think of something else to say - spending his night reassuring Eli West about making it, how fucking bizarre is that - when West sways just that much closer and puts his hand on Kyle’s thigh.

“Uh,” Kyle says, eloquent as ever.

“When I walked in,” West starts, and Kyle licks his lips unconsciously. West’s hand is warm, his thumb catching on the inseam of Kyle’s jeans. 

“West-”

“Eli,” West says. 

“Eli.” Kyle’s muscles tense, and West’s hand slides up an inch. For some godforsaken reason Kyle thinks about the way West looked leading off third, his quads straining against the fabric of his baseball pants, hair curling out under the brim of his cap. He’s about to say, we can’t; they shouldn’t do it, and shouldn’t is close enough to can’t for it to count here. Instead he says, “I don’t have a roommate right now.”

“Good.” There’s no way West doesn’t have a curfew, but he clearly doesn’t care enough because he says, “Let’s go.” 

Kyle’s okay to drive, and West must have taken an Uber to get here from the team hotel, so they pile into his car. He lives far enough out of downtown Durham that it’s a bit of a drive, likes it that way. If he makes it to Tampa he’s not going to get to be surrounded by trees the way he is now, sticky North Carolina air replaced with sticky Florida air and the smell of salt instead of sap and pine. 

They kiss as soon as Kyle’s parked the car, West leaning over the gearshift like the teenager he was not too long ago. West’s lips are against his, and Kyle gives into temptation and winds his hand into West’s hair, looping curls around his fingers, tugging enough to make West gasp into his mouth. 

“Eli,” he says. West blinks up at him, dark eyes somehow even darker than they were. “Come on. Let’s go upstairs.”

Kyle’s apartment is a mess - they got back from a road trip right before this series started and he’s got clothes and shoes strewn everywhere, his only decor is a giant Bulls poster hanging next to a Chicago flag - but West doesn’t seem to care. They’re standing kissing in the middle of the room, West’s hands all over his ass, palming it, pulling Kyle closer into him. They’re built different even if they’re roughly the same height, and Kyle’s not one to talk anyway, not with the way he keeps tugging at West’s hair. 

“You want a drink or something?” he asks, and West laughs. “Or I could show you the bedroom.”

His bed is unmade, while he’s at it. West doesn’t care about that either. Kyle’s hard in his jeans from the kissing, from West’s hands. Fuck, from the anticipation of the car ride, blood thrumming in his veins the moment he decided that yeah, fucking baseball’s Next Big Thing sounded like a great goddamn idea. 

West catches him off guard and pushes him down. Kyle lands with a thump on the mattress and West is going for the fly of his jeans. He knows what he’s doing, and Kyle takes a minute to wonder who else he’s done this with. Guys from back home, or other ballplayers, if he’s going to come due on a half-dozen bets once he makes the show.

It doesn’t matter right now. West is mouthing over his dick through his boxers, and Kyle groans and reaches down, gets his hands right back in West’s curly hair, spreading his legs wide when West nudges them open. They don’t have time but he’s thinking about West fucking him, felt his dick hard when they were making out, thinks about West stretching him open, pushing inside him. West has a hand wrapped around the base of his dick, another splayed over Kyle’s thigh. He shifts that hand so he’s pressing, just a little, where Kyle’s open, and Kyle comes down his throat, making all kinds of embarrassing noises. He says “Eli” at least once, like a plea, and West pulls off and says, “Fuck,” thumb rubbing enough to make Kyle shudder hard.

“You have,” West says, once they’ve mostly caught their breath. His voice has a rough edge to it, all new. “Catcher thighs. You know?”

“Comes with the job,” Kyle says. He pulls West up so they can kiss for a minute, West grinding his dick into Kyle’s hip. “Wish you could fuck me.”

West smirks at him, presses a kiss to the corner of his jaw. “When I win our bet,” he says, the kind of promise that makes Kyle’ stomach clench.

They find the lube in Kyle’s nightstand and West fucks his thighs, biting a bruise into the curve where Kyle’s neck meets his shoulder. He comes on Kyle’s thighs too, hands tight around his waist, whispering dirty suggestions into his ear. 

After, they fool around in the shower, get West presentable enough to be dropped off in his hotel like a good boy who didn’t break curfew, didn’t fuck the opposing team’s catcher, didn’t make any promises he shouldn’t. When they’re done, half-dressed, Kyle looks at his phone. Missed number. Tampa Bay area code. Missed number he recognizes, Durham’s front office.

West is scrolling through his, pulling up a rideshare app. 

He calls back, and his manager picks up. “Glad you’re still up,” he says. “Look, kid, Mike tweaked something in extras, got an MRI once Tampa’s game finally ended. They think it’s a groin injury. They need you on the first flight outta Raleigh in the morning. It’s 5:50 AM, so pack now.”

He tries to say something, doesn’t know what. West is staring at him with those fucking eyes.

“Did they-” Kyle clears his throat. “Did they say how long?”

“Couple weeks, at least. You’ll be on the road. Call your parents in the morning - you’re from Illinois, right, maybe they can make it to Minny in time.” His manager pauses. “And hey, congrats, Kyle. You did good work. Pick up when the front office calls, okay?”

“Okay,” Kyle manages, before they hang up. West is staring at him, and Kyle has to stare back, before they’re kissing again. He shouldn’t be celebrating this with a guy he barely knows, but - but. Nothing else makes sense. 

“I’m meeting the team in Minneapolis in the morning,” he says, once they stop. “That’s uh. Yeah. Why my manager called.”

West touches him on the arm. Kyle should be, fuck, he should be packing and calling his mom and dad and sister, he’s got to head to the airport in five hours, but instead he can’t look away from West and he can’t move.

“Congrats,” West says finally. “You know what this means, yeah?”

“Bet’s still on?” The White Sox haven’t played Tampa yet; they’ve got two series to look forward to. Even if Kyle’s only up until Zunino is off the IL. Who knows. 

“You’ll never see it coming,” West says, and kisses him again, fast and hard, before he goes. 


End file.
